Tuesday, May 11, 2021

The House Is Made Of Glass

 

but a faceless breeze so inundated as casual casualties of gnawing. such a gnat so influenced such beautiful, treacherous deaths. to assert it is me in you as doing what it selects; fire so gorgeous or art such diamonds as creatures restitched broken open. I gnash at self so uncured as a delinquent in court. rooms so small windows as metaphors while most watch us closely. it was weird to see such behavior. most are sawed like cedar. or undeveloped in a man’s exhaustion. to master is a long road to love is cold hunger so snared by my ambition. I find a truth that togetherness means acceptance of trials; sweet aftermath so delicate while looking at you I remember you. so much virtue announced such precious crowns while we feel pure inconsistency. such horseback liars such solemn sacredness as souls abased, rejoicing, as a person struck by identity. the handicap becomes its intricacy while wild wolves eat at thoughts. to ally a feeling a raffled feeling where being self is too intrusive. as thoughts somewhere in excellence while camouflage is excruciating—those miles to curtains those rivers in living-rooms or this fragrant elephant laughing for we accepted it. a padlock on charms a jackhammer to logic while want to ignore our intuition. to imagine a person as hurting our guts faced by a lurid situation. to hear rationalization while parted by self as to realize it might get terrible. such nausea such craft while one sits in utter depletion. such marvelous aging to realize deeply they’ll be no turning back experience.


it was different in me as realizing deep wrangling where one is want to design the fall. then I thought to her life, all those secrets, all such unrelenting shame. I lose what I don’t want, and she loses herself. as time points at itself it laughs at our securities, we try to outwit this carnivalesque insistence. moving as moved. or drifting as symbols, to find it never mattered. to blame one for placing temptation, is this not irregular? I see nothing more than flame in bringing out what was there. it was screaming for freedom it was barely pacified as souls we sense this.      

I’d Save The Reader Years

    The beat becomes sickness. A long crucible—a drilling ecstasy. I was losing focus, feeling forbidden, if to self, if to mirrors. So curs...